Truth be told, Dad likely had ulterior motives when he bought me and Barb boxing gloves. Heck, it might have even been his idea! While not clearly remembering how we came to get the gloves, I remember quite clearly the bouts, which always ended badly.

Thinking back to my youth, there was nothing more satisfying than that moment when two or more friends agree to play. It matters not what was to be played, it was sweet anticipation when playing anything was agreed upon. It did matter how many would be playing though. When a group of kids agreed to play football, that was the ultimate! Of course it mattered whether it was to be tackle or touch. Ah, but that’s another story.

Me and Barb agreeing to put the gloves on also carried with it that excitement. Most times this came up, we were bored and no one else was around to play anything else. We would get all excited, find all the gloves, which was not always easy to do, and feverishly get them on and laced. Well, mostly laced. How two little boys both get gloves on and laced is a conundrum. All thumbs, you know? Once “ready”, we would get started throwing a few jabs and bobbing and dancing just like Ali. Well, about the time one of us landed an actual punch to the face, that’s when the fight really started. Generally this meant the boxing match was over and the wrestling match was on!!! Until later years, after I had put on a few inches and some pounds, this nearly always ended with me on my back, Barb kneeling on my arms, his face directly above mine, and drooling his spit, aimed squarely for my face. The key to this maneuver was to suck it back in after letting it stretch out a few inches. This was key because a man, okay a boy, that gets spit on is usually the winner by virtue of being the one with the highest degree of built up anger! The adrenaline rush here was astronomical! Yeah, “let’s box!” always sounded like a lot more fun than it actually turned out to be.

Back to whose idea it was to get boxing gloves …

When Barb and I got overly rowdy in the house, if we were only causing a slight inconvenience to Dad, he’d say, “Get out of this house and run around the block!” And you did. Of course you never ran the entire way round the block, but you ran at least ’til you could be certain you were out of his sight. If we were being particularly rowdy, he would say, “Get the gloves!” Holy crap! This meant we had to box fairly, box hard, and not stop when someone got hurt. I am here to tell you, that’s when I learned I was no real boxer!